Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Richard Ben Sapir wrote a novel in the late seventies called "The Far Arena." (Some of you might recall his name from the very long running and bestselling Destroyer series that he and Warren Murphy created. Those started out serious, but quickly turned funny, and though Sapir passed away, Murphy kept going, stretching them out to well over a hundred titles.)

Um. But in the Sapir novel, which was science fiction, the set-up is that a Roman gladiator got too popular and was ordered to kill himself. This he did by taking some mysterious poison and walking into an icy sea. The combination of the poison and cold somehow preserved him, and two thousand years later, he was found in a block of ice, thawed out, and revived.

Yeah, okay, that's the suspension of disbelief, but not so hard for SF readers to make.

Anyway, as the story progresses, the main character's prowess as a sword fighter gets bandied about and -- forgive my fuzzy memory -- he winds up in a match with the current French fencing champion. The French guy is a master of his art, and he is pissed at the idea that the gladiator could possibly beat him. He pulls the button off his blade and goes for blood. His technique is far superior.

The gladiator, however, had fought men and sometimes tigers, to the death in the arena, and within a couple seconds, the French champion was past tense.

And the point was, real combat isn't sport.

A recent posting by a MMA champ on a martial arts website as to how silly the art of silat is compared to what he does brought this memory up.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

In my salad days, I got into yoga and meditation. I can't say I was fanatical about it, but I was diligent. Every day, I'd do yoga asanas (on a wool blanket), and twice a day, morning and evening, I'd sit.

"Sit" here being a technical term for mediation, and more specifically in this case, mantra mediation. Basically, you find a spot, get comfortable, and mentally intone a word or phrase over and over to yourself for however long you feel is valid. I did it for twenty minutes a session or so. (I had an Indian mantra, but scientific research says that any word will do -- "Coca Cola" apparently does the same thing physiologially as "Brama ...")

Not a cult fanatic, but maybe not that far away. My wife and I had a rented house, and that was where the group meditations met once a week. We were considered the state's representatives by the powers-that-were in the yoga society to which we belonged -- we got all the mailings, and had our second-round mantras given to us by Dadaji, one of the chief lieutenants, who wore the orange, and who flew from India to Baton Rouge to show us all the way.

For a couple years and some, I did my routine every day without fail, rain, shine, no matter where I was.

I was also obnoxious about it: "Toke that? No, thank, you. I meditate ..."

"Sorry, I have to go and sit now, we'll continute this discussion later ..."

"Acid? Yeah, it's okay, but it doesn't let you stay where you want to go. Meditation is the key."

Remember: Be Here Now was our bible.

Eventually, I got out of it, for several reasons: I picked up Krishnamurti's Flight of the Eagle, and it, said something about mechanical meditation in, mechanical results out, and when I read that, it gave me pause.

A friend asked me if I was really getting off on meditation, or if I was getting off on people seeing that I meditated -- and I honestly wasn't sure which it was.

Then there were the frauds and organizational wars in the group that led, at one point, to rival factions coming together on a quiet plain and whacking the shit out of each other using their holy peace-and-harmony signs.

I got your universal love right here, pal -- !

Yeah? Meditate on this -- !

Baba, we were told in mails from Ma, had fallen off the path, and we should disregard him.

Ma, came the response from Baba, had abandoned the true teachings and run off with a heathen, ignore what she had to say.

It got ugly, and when we all figured out that our secret, must-never-be-spoken-aloud mantras that had been personally tailored to fit each of us were all the same word? Well, that pretty much tore it. AMF.

But the point of all this was how holier-than-thou I was at the time, glorying in my superiority as a meditator and not just a dope-smoking, mescaline-dropping, going-nowhere hippie like a lot of my friends ...

At one point during this period, I had occasion to fly from New Orleans to Los Angeles on a jumbo jet. During the flight, my appointed time to sit came, and since I had a row of three seats to myself, I raised the seat arms, pulled my legs up crosslegged, closed my eyes, and spent twenty minutes intoning my magic word silently.

I was aware that the flight attendants -- then called stewardesses -- were passing by and looking at me. One of them asked the guy I was traveling with, "What's he doing?"

My buddy, who was not pursuing any kind of particular moral or spiritual path -- he smoked three packs of Kents a day, and drank a fair amount of booze -- said to the stewardess through his cloud of cigarette smoke, "Oh, he's masturbating in his mind."

At which time I realized I wasn't in the zone, because that was pretty funny, and I couldn't stop the grin.

I could have gone to the bathroom and stayed there for twenty minutes. Or I could have waited until we landed. I could even have just leaned back and closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep and repeated my mantra -- but no, I was, by Brama, gonna sit half-lotus on that plane, in front of God and everybody, and do my thing, and devil take the unbelievers.

Playing to an audience, I was.

I hope I'm not that obnoxious any more. I know I wouldn't do it in today's charged climate, because, even as old redneck-oakie-hillbilly as I look, such a thing might cause more than a little concern on a crowded airplane. I might not be part of the solution, but I don't want to be part of the problem.

I have little sympathy for anybody who, today, would behave on a plane as I did back in the late sixties. Yeah, I was young and full of myself, but the times were different. Plane hijackings in the U.S. were rare -- D.B. Cooper's stunt was in the future, and nobody had flown any aircraft into buildings.

All of that changed on 9/11, and for better or worse, we all have to live with that from now on. If you are going to commune with God, do it in a way that doesn't scare your fellow passengers; I'm sure God will understand.

Friday, November 24, 2006

Recently, there was a long-running thread on a marital arts group in which there was some spirited discussion about a recent event. The short version is, a college grad student, wanting to make a point about how lax airport security is in the U.S., put up a website in which he showed anybody who cared to log on how to make fake boarding passes for an airline. Just to make a point.

Shortly thereafter, the feds kicked in his door, scooped him up, seized his computer, and hauled 'em away. There were some laws apparently being broken, and even if he was just funning around, the people at Homeland Security and TSA don't have any sense of humor about such things. Nor do I blame them.

I was not the least bit surprised. I took the position that the guy was stupid to have done this, and got a surge of hate about how I was, at least, a tool of the repressive jackbooted government. And at worst, a Nazi myself.

Such things should not be illegal! they said. High, loud, and repeatedly.

Nor did I disagree.

But if you want to smuggle a gun onto a plane just to show how easy it is and you get caught? That's gonna be your ass in jail, unless you are working for Sixty Minutes, and maybe even then. The law sometimes takes into account intent, and sometimes, it doesn't.

Understand, I went to some lengths to explain that I thought the Homeland Security Act violated at least three or four of the ten amendments that are the Bill of Rights and that I disagree with how the law came to be and what it covered, but nobody seemed to understand the basic point:

If you are standing next to a tiger and you pull its tail, that's generally a bad idea. Doesn't matter that the tiger ought not to be there, the fact that it is is paramount.

Pulling a tiger's tail is not on my to-do list, thank you. And if it turns around and takes your head off when you do it, you ought not to be too surprised. This is not ignorance, this is stupidity. Take a guy raised on a island who's never seen a TV or a book or any animal bigger than a squirrel and put him down next to a tiger and his hair will stand on end and he'll start looking for a tree to climb -- fear of big critters with huge teeth goes waaay deep into the lizard brain.

Recently, there is the case of the mullahs who were kicked off the plane. On the face of it, that's sheer bigotry -- as Mushtaq pointed out on his blog -- see the link to Traceless Warrior -- instead of DWB -- Driving While Black -- we now how FWM -- Flying While Muslim. And I am quick to agree this ought not to happen.

It shouldn't happen.

And yet, I wonder: Were these men tugging, even slightly, on the tiger's tail? From the accounts, it isn't clear exactly what they said or did prior to boarding the flight, but apparently whatever it was did disturb the wa of a number of passengers in the waiting area.

Should these people have been disturbed? Probably not. Probably. But -- in today's spooked climate, saying or doing anything at yon airport that makes things worse is maybe not the best idea. Yes, you should be free to bespeak your mind as long as you aren't yelling "Fire!" in a crowded theater (more or less) but unless you have been living in a cave for the last few years, you should know that you might want to keep a low profile while waiting for your flight. Rightly or wrongly, the times and certain places have become over-sensitive, and it is perhaps wiser to take note of that than to have to suffer for making a point you consider important to make.

You can choose to do otherwise, of course, but you should recognize that such choices might cost you more than you want to pay.

I can hear the retort: "This is America, by God, and I can say and do what I want, long as I don't step over the legal line! "This is true, technically, but sometimes technically isn't enough.

If half a dozen men about to get onto my plane stand up and say "Allah Ackbar!" as we are boarding? I have to tell you, that will make me nervous. Yeah, I know about freedom of religion but even being a reasonable liberal-type when it comes to such things if it makes me jumpy, I'm guessing that people with less tolerance than I are going to be coming unglued.

And I have to say, anybody who does such a thing damn well ought to know it is a bad idea for fostering harmony among one's fellow passengers. If you are bright enough to have found your way to the airport, you are bright enough to know this.

What to do until the Messiah comes is always tricky. In today's charged society, thinking carefully about that before you do it is maybe not a bad idea ...

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

So Sunday my calf muscles were really sore, more so yesterday, and for just a moment, I was puzzled? What did I do to cause that?

Saturday, I went to a science fiction convention, Orycon, held at the downtown Marriott Hotel in Portland. Experienced volunteer committees who run these things eventually learn that it is wisest to schedule the programming on one level, and failing that, two floors accessible by stairs and escalators.

Otherwise, you wind up with elevator parties. These don't take place on the elevators themselves, but gathered around the buttons waiting for the elevators to arrive.

Pretty much the concom managed that here, it was on three levels -- basement, ground, restaurant -- with a few places up the high-rise. The green room, where the writers and other guests go to collect their badges and programs and to hang out before panels and speeches, was on the sixteenth floor, as was the fan lounge.

At big cons, really big ones, like the Worldcon, with five or eight thousand people, there are usually multiple venues, and even so, the elevator parties last forever. If there are forty people waiting, even when one finally shows up, it's like being in a long line of traffic at a left turn signal in Beaverton, you aren't going to get to go for a couple cycles.

Science fiction fans are not generally athletic, and a lot of them will take an elevator up one floor rather than climb the stairs. There were probably a couple thousand attendees at Orycon this year, plus the normal folks staying at the hotel. The elevator waiting areas were thus congested, so I took the stairs.

Except once, when I had to go to the green room. My business there concluded, I came out to find a dozen people standing by the elevator buttons waiting, and I decided, "Bag this," and headed for the stairs.

I mean, yeah, sixteen floors, but -- going down, right? That's not like going up that many, hey?

At the time, it was fine. I descended -- had the stairwell completely to myself the whole way. Got to the ground, had to go outside and loop back to the lobby, wasn't even winded.

But apparently I had fogotten the last time I had come down that many stairs.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

I get asked this one now and again. Why go to all that work to study something you might never use? That you are going to go out of your way to avoid using?

The quick answer is, "Because it only takes one time to pay for itself." That extra twenty-five years you get when the guy trying to take your head off can't? Hard to put a price on that.

If your car gets rear-ended, insurance can pay for a new bumper.

You can't fix dead ...

Most people get into martial arts (and I'll include western-style boxing and wrestling here) for self-defense. Some do the stuff for sport, some for discipline or social intercourse, or just to stay in shape, but if I had to guess, based on the last survey I dimly remember reading, eight of ten do so with the idea they can use the training to keep somebody from kicking their ass.

Certainly that's why I did.

Here's the inevitable digression ...

Much of how I was formed as person has been a study in Napoleonic Compensation. As a boy, I was terrified of drowning, not just worried, terrified. The way my father taught us to swim was, he showed us how to paddle and kick, and, when he thought we should have it, chucked us into the deep end of the pool to see. At age eight or so, I got tossed, and I managed to get back to the side; that time, my little brother went straight to the bottom and my father had to dive in and fetch him.

Old-style teaching, and not my wont.

So I could swim, after a fashion, but for the next few years, I was fearful any time the water was deeper than I was tall, and in the schoolboy dunkings, I was panicked.

So when I got to the Boy Scouts, I started taking every class and merit badge there was on how-to-swim. After I got those, I got a job working as a lifeguard at a country club pool and spent hours every day in the water. Became a Water Safety Instructor, courtesy of the Red Cross, and at one point could hold my breath for four minutes. I learned all the swimming strokes well enough to teach them, and did.

Also got scuba gear and learned how to dive -- until a blown-out eardrum ended that.

By the time I was eighteen, I had absolutely no fear of drowning. The water was my friend, a source of fun, I loved to swim, and though I don't much these days, still love it. Doesn't't mean that drowning is impossible, but the unreasoning fear of it is long-gone.

Somebody wants to grab me and hold me under? Fine, let's both go -- and see who runs out of air first ...

As a tad, I got into a few fistfights, schoolboy stuff again, and while I wasn't particularly adept (and was passing small in size), I won as many as I lost. But I was fearful, worried that I would get beaten-up, and during my junior high years, was in a school where there were a dozen fights every day. I walked wide to avoid possible confrontations, even though when they happened, I held my own. It was not so much the ability, it was the confidence that was lacking.

So when the first karate school opened its doors in our town a few years later, I was in the first class. Didn't really learn much there, but subsequent attendance and training at a half-dozen other martial arts schools eventually followed.

At some point, I stopped worrying that I was gonna get thumped.

After the last eleven years in pentjak silat, I feel fairly confident that my skills are sufficient to provide me some tools that work, so while I might still get my ass handed to me, I'm not afraid that is going to happen. I kinda feel like that scene in Gordy Dickson's Dorsai novel when somebody is watching one of the Dorsai and realizing that if that guy sees a fight coming, he isn't worried about whether he can win, he's considering how he is going to do it.

Not, "Can I sink the six ball?" but, "That's a given -- how many rails can I use, and in which pocket do I want to sink it?"

There is a difference, of course, in what you can do and what you think you can do, and sometimes the latter may get too far ahead of the former and cause you some problems. But if I had to narrow it down, I'd say that believing you can survive a dust-up is more important than being a master of the art you'll use to try.

Attitude matters. The fight, as they say, isn't under the glove -- it's under the hat. You might not be the meanest son-of-a-bitch in the Valley of Death, but if you believe that you are? Better than being sure you'll get whipped if push comes to shove.

The folding knife is a Mel Pardue design for Benchmade, the scales their version of fake ivory.

The pistol is a S&W M-52 Master, a target pistol that shoots mid-range wadcutters. It's about as accurate out of the box as any production centerfire pistol made -- put it in a benchrest and, at a target fifty yards downrange, it will put the bullets into a space about the size of your palm all day long. Not that I can shoot it that well, but I don't get to blame the hardware when I can't.

The gun's grips are Ajax's version of fake ivory, so Jumbo did not die for my sins.

The images, of the keris on the folder and The Shadow on the Smith, are my poor attempts at scrimshaw. (The other side of the S&W grip has a copy of a Vaughan Bodé nude, out of Cheech Wizard.) I dabbled briefly in this art, realized it was way too hard to do well, and took up the guitar instead. If, however, you want to see somebody who is really, really good at it, go here:

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

A recent series of exchanges on a newsgroup I frequent started when one of the posters told a scary story. He lives in the U.K. -- the supposed-heart of civilization -- and a group of thugs-in-training (teenage rowdies) broke into his flat landing. When he tried to shoo them away, he was cursed, spat at, and eventually had to retreat upstairs to his flat, where his wife and small son were. The rowdies decided to follow him. They booted the locks off, and he managed to lean on the door enough to keep them at bay, while his wife called the local police. Apparently the police station was but a couple blocks away.

Eventually, the high-spirited lads tired of their sport and left. And fifty minutes after the call, the police eventually came round.

This being England, no handguns are permitted. (I love it that the British Olympic pistol team has to take the Chunnel to France to practice.) Rifles and shotguns are allowed, but require some effort to obtain, and must be locked up in approved cabinets or safes when not taken out for actual shooting.

This begain a discussion in which, as a martial artist, I offered some advice about what weapons might be better than the crowbar the poster had in the back of a closet somewhere. Various ones were bandied about: Swords, crossbows, and I allowed that a pair of large butcher knives might give the thuglets pause.

Warriors and pacifists came out and began to debate the merits of violence, and those comments ranged from let-a-smile-be-your-umbrella, don't-worry-be-happy, to split-'em-like-chickens-and-put-'em-on-roasting-spits!

And eventually, as these threads often seem to do, it went down the road to gun control.

Generally, in my experience, there are few fence-sitters on this one. Like abortion, most people come down firmly on one side or the other, and minds seldom get changed. It's an emotional issue, and me being a non-conservative with a gun confuses people no end. How can that be?

Anyhow, at some point, I was doing research to bolster my side of the debate and I came across a couple of gun-sayings I enjoy, so I thought I'd share them with you.

The first concerns what often happens when people learn that you might go around strapped."You carry a handgun? Why? Are you expecting trouble?"

To which the proper answer is, "No. If I were expecting trouble, I'd be carrying a rifle."

Non-shooters don't get it, and I have to explain that a revolver or pistol is a compromise. One can carry such with relative ease compared to hauling a rifle around unnoticed, but handguns are not nearly as effective as long guns.

I also pointed out that knife in hand inside seven meters is better than a big-bore handgun in a concealment holster for getting there firstest with the mostest, even though it's not generally a good idea to bring a knife to a gunfight. At fifty feet, the shooter wins. And if he draws before the knifer, or is the reincarnation of John Wesley Hardin, the knife guy has a problem. Take both, that gives you more options

You carry a gun and a knife?

I didn't say that. But knives don't run out of ammo ...

The other saying: You know what the two loudest sounds in the world are? One, when you are expecting click! and instead you hear bang! The other is when you are expecting bang! and you hear click ... !

Now and then, I get a few cheap T-shirts and do iron-on logos, to pass out among the silat players in the Thursday class. This is the latest version. With this one, there are two things slightly different than earlier ones: I've dropped the silent "k" in "Sera," and added Maha Guru Plinck's name, to differentiate us from other branches of the art.

Henceforth, unless I am told otherwise by my teacher, this is what I'm calling what we do up there in Kelso ...

There are several meanings for this one -- primary and specific is the religious revelation of Christ to the Gentiles, in the book of Matthew.

A bit more generally, epiphany is a manifestation of a spiritual or supernatural being.

The third meaning is more general still -- it is a sudden and usually unexpected realization or insight, the "Aha!" moment when you get something. It's the forehead-slapping, oh-wow! how could I have missed seeing this? second. You come to Jesus, or you come to realize something in a visceral way that, in the moment, is very tangible. Like the sound of a seatbelt latch snicking into place, something clicks! and you are lockedin.

Sometimes these moments can be huge. Cosmic consciousness, connection to the divine, a pattern recognition that stretches across your personal universe and alters your life, maybe the lives of everybody around you. Of that moment, you know who you are, what you need to do, and how to do it, and your place in the scheme of things. Nearly every religion I've spent any time studying has this concept, and there are a lot of names for it, nirvana, samadhi, zen, beholding the Divine, attaining bliss, the cosmic thunderbolt, the finger of God, the kundalini risen ...

Most people don't get a lot of those moments. If you get one in a lifetime, you might consider yourself blessed. Or maybe like Cassandra, cursed. But whichever, you won't be the same afterward. The fire anneals and re-tempers you, and you come out different.

The smaller epiphanies, the ones that come as you struggle to understand something, be it emotionally, spiritually, intellectually, physically, are more frequent, less overwhelming, but, as I am discovering, something you can cultivate.

On the one hand, these moments aren't dependable -- you don't know when they'll happen.On the other hand, they are dependable -- if you work at it, they are going to happen sooner or later. At least in my experience.

On a typical day, most of my time is spent doing the things most working people do -- I get up, get dressed, go to work. In my case, I don't have to get very dressed, and commuting to work involves walking down the hall to my office, but still.

There are several things I do on a typical day that I try to do well: I write, I do pentjak silat, I practice the guitar. (I also interact with my dogs, sometimes hike to the local Safeway, or the post office, and do other errands. And put it all away when my wife comes home from work to be with her. And there are kids and grandkids and other activities, too.)

Of late, I have had several small -- or maybe not so small -- epiphanies. They are not the end of the journey, but they are mileposts along the path.

One day in silat class, it came home to me that I knew enough of the art to use it. Not mastered, far from it, but during one of those fumbling attempts to add a new piece, I realized that the reason I couldn't do what I wanted in that moment was that I was thinking and not doing. Of course, that's the nature of learning in a class -- a new thing can't be internalized the same way a repeated move can. It blossomed in me that, if I wasn't following directions to do-it-this-way, that if I were turned loose and told just do whatever I felt like as the attacker came at me, that I could clean the guy's clock, no problem at all. I had the moves to do it, and they'd be there when I needed them. Simple.

It's not as if I hadn't thought I could before, and it's not as though I won't someday have another Aha! moment that will be different, but that little flash changed the way I felt and moved. Of a second, I was better at it, and I knew it. Right down to my toes.

Same thing happened whilst practicing the guitar. I picked up a new piece of music recently. It wasn't a complex composition, but as I started to play it, it came to me that I could do this, and I could make it sound good. That didn't mean I wouldn't have to work just as hard getting my fingers to go where they were supposed to go as before, but that, in the end, I knew that if I kept it up, I'd learn it, and after a certain amount of time, I'd have it.

These kinds of moments used to happen fairly often in my writing, not as much any more. I think maybe I'm as good as I am apt to get, though now and then, some small bit will flower on the page and I'll grin at it. Of course, I've been writing a lot longer than I have been doing silat or playing the guitar, and there are roads I've been down often enough so I know the scenery. Maybe if I take a different path, I'll see new things.

And my point about all this?

These magic moments are the product of work. They come because you are doing what is necessary to learn something. The timing isn't predictable, but the realization that you can and most like will internalize concepts or movements or feelings as long as you keep plugging away is, for me, a major one. And that one path to the magic is the old Nike TV commerical:

Saturday, November 11, 2006

Thursday, November 09, 2006

I meant to explain this cover, after showing it in a recent post to demonstrate the, um, less well-written fiction ...

The artwork, by Ken Smith, is for the story "Star Warriors," a blatant steal from ... well, you can probably guess what that was. My working title was "Rip-Off Warriors ..."

In the late 1970's, I met the writer Hank Stine (now Jean Stine, and that's another very weird story. Some years earlier, Hank had written a classic sci-fi porno novel for, I think, Grove Press, called Season of the Witch, about a woman trapped in a man's body. Apparently it was not as fictional as one might have thought -- he eventually had the surgery and changed gender.)

I digress. Bad habit. But it's so interesting ...

Anyway, I had just started writing and trying to sell stuff, when Hank, who had moved to my home town with his new wife, gave a talk at the local library. I had never met a published SF writer, and since I was probably the only other guy in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, even trying to write the stuff, we had something in common. We started hanging out.

Hank introduced me to science fiction conventions, my first one being the SunCon in Miami, in, I think, 1977. I met Robert Heinlein there. Sorta. He walked under my arm as I was leaning against the wall. He was not a tall man, Bob Heinlein ...

Um. Anyway, shortly after that, Hank moved away, and got the job as editor of Galaxy Magazine. At another convention in Phoenix, in 1978, he and I and Harlan Ellison were walking to Harlan's GoH speech when Hank offered me a gig. He needed, he said, a thirty-thousand word novella, a Star Wars pastiche -- that recent movie -- to be published in two parts. He needed the first half in a week, all he could pay was a penny a word, and could I do it?

No problem, I said. I was a two-story pro at that point -- nothing was beyond me, I was fearless. (I got another assignment at that con for a short story, and I wrote the first part of it on a napkin whilst sitting in the bar. A very productive convention, I doubled my entire published output as a result of attending, plus I met J.F. "Jesse" Bone, who wrote The Lani People ...

No, no, I won't veer into digression-land again. Back to the tale:

After the con, I went home, cranked out the piece, and shipped it. It was published in two parts, under my pseudonym, "Jesse Peel." Hank had told me to get it done, not to worry about how rough it was, he'd fix it. I was afflicted with both exclamation point poisoning and said-bookisms at the time, and Hank, bless his hairy little head, didn't touch the sucker, so every goof I made stayed on the page. Had a guy hiss the word "damn." Try that some time. Can't do it. Nooo sibilants ...

It was not the acme of western literature, though it did get a couple of nice reviews, despite the fact it was almost totally derivative. Almost.

Kenneth Smith, the artist, who published a magazine called Phantasmagoria, went on to bigger and better things. Not long ago, I tracked him down. Did he still have the cover he had done for that old Galaxy? I'd be interested in buying it, since I'd always liked it, and couldn't afford artwork at the time I wrote the novella.

What was not to like? A half-naked couple on a giant pile of skulls and bones blasting away at the bad guys, the demi-whelf Linchini snarling next to them, the giant Trogian robot in the background. (See, I had a short furry sidekick and a giant robot, instead of a giant furry guy and a short robot, so it wasn't totally derivative. And in case you missed it, Linchini is not far from Lon Chaney, and swapping a couple letters in "Trog" gives you Gort ...)

Klaatu barrada ... uh ... uh ... oh, crap!

Smith said, Why, yes, even after all these years, he did still have that cover. It was in an art gallery in San Francisco, and for sale. I could have it for a mere $20,000.

Twentythousanddollars?

Right. I got three hundred bucks to write thirty thousand words, only half of which I ever managed to collect.. Of course, that was in 1978 dollars, so that hundred and fifty would be maybe ... three hundred dollars today ...

Twenty grand. Maybe I shoulda been an illustrator instead of a writer ...

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Those of you who know me personally know that I am not a fan of war in general, the current one the U.S. has blundered into in particular, nor do I hold a positive brief for the current White House Administration. I am by nature and political affiliation, an Independent. I don't want to lend my name to either of the two major parties.

"You can fool all the people some of the time, and some of the people all of the time, but you cannot fool all the people all of the time."

Delightful to see the rare occasion when the third part holds true. Captain Karma Rules! the chickens came home to roost, and I cannot recall a time in recent memory when I was so happy to see the party in power get its comeuppance.

And for the first time I can ever recall, every measure and every candidate for which and whom I voted for (or against,) passed, failed, or won as I would have it-- I batted a thousand. Never happened before, probably never will again, but for once, I am pleased to be in the majority.

Probably means I should keep an eye out for signs of the Apocalypse ...

Sunday, November 05, 2006

The mid-term elections are Tuesday -- save in places where vote-by-mail is allowed, like Oregon -- and while you might think your choices are between dumb and dumber, or the Devil and the deep blue sea, if you are a citizen, you can always vote against somebody.

Choose the lesser of two evils. But if you don't vote, you don't get to bitch. At the least, later, you can say, "Well, I tried to keep the son-of-bitch out of office -- I voted for the other guy."

Exercise your franchise. One vote might make the difference, and won't you feel like an idiot if the guy or ballot measure you hated won by one vote?

Friday, November 03, 2006

I've never been a big player in La-La-Land. I've had some small experiences there, animation writing for the tube, a few movie scripts that haven't made it to the silver screen, like that. But in the vein of what I think is funny, lemme tell you one of my Hollywood stories ...

The story is true. The names, as they used to say on Dragnet, have been changed to protect the innocent. And the guilty ...

Some years ago, my then-writing partner and I -- call him Roy -- got a freelance gig to write an episode of a cartoon show, let's say it was Funny Little Critters. At this point, the show is being written and boarded, so it's months away from being on the air.

Eventually, we wound up writing several scripts for the producers and fine time was had by all.

Face-time is important in the Biz. So I go down there, since I was living in Oregon, and Roy and I go out to lunch with the story editor and his assistant. They'd be, let's say, Sammy J, and Gary. We go to a nice upscale burger place, called The Good Earth, a SoCal chain. Burgers, bean sprouts, whole-wheat buns, like that.

The waitress, an attractive young woman in her early twenties, comes to take our order.

Now there is a thing you may not know, but in Hollywood, there are folks in the Biz who, for reasons I can only guess at, feel the need to impress service people with how important they are: These guys will go int a 7-Eleven store, usually in pairs, and comment loudly to each other about their latest deal, dropping actor's names like rose petals at a formal wedding, and for some reason, lacing their monologues liberally with profanity: "Yeah, I got this piece of shit dramady to do for Disney, they think maybe Brad and Angelina to star, but the fucking director is a motherfucker ..."

I think this bespeaks a basic and deep insecurity, that you need approbation from the minimum-wage 7-Eleven clerk, but that seems to be part of what Hollywood runs on ...

Anyway, back at the Good Earth, Gary decides that he is going to impress the hell out of the waitress, and so he says to her, "Do you know who this is?" and points at his boss.

"No, should I?"

"This is Sammy J! He is the story editor for Funny Little Critters, the new animated show!"

Which, you recall, isn't on the air yet. And, in the Hollywood pantheon, animation impresses nobody anyhow. Cartoons? Plus, writers don't impress anybody even more. Think of your three favorite movies -- can you name the writers of them? I didn't think so ...

And the waitress says, "Huh. And who are you? One of the funny little critters?"

In Hollywood, they do love a snappy comeback. Roy, Sammy J, and I all grin and chuckle. Point for the waitress.

Gary, being very high on the insecure-list, turns red and fumes, but doesn't say anything.

So she takes our orders and then asks what we want to drink. Gary decides that if he can't impress her, he can, by God, put her in her place. So he says, in a snotty voice, "I'll have water. And keep it coming." Every time he takes a sip, he expects her to hurry over and top off his glass, and by saying this, he is letting her know who the boss is.

(My opinion is that guys who do such things to waiters and waitresses are, not to put too fine a point on it, pricks.)

The waitress doesn't say anything, though. She leaves.

We chat about the show, and a couple minutes later, the busboy shows up with our drinks.Roy gets iced tea, Sammy J, some kind of juice, I have a Coke. And the busboy puts six full glasses of water down in front of Gary ...

As you might imagine, this is cause for more mirth. Roy, Sammy J, and I cackle, and Gary shades right through red into purple. Score another point for the waitress, but -- wait!

A second busboy shows up. He's carrying a five-gallon plastic bucket full of water, with a slice of lemon on the rim, and he sets this down on the table in front of Gary.

The rest of us are now on the floor, trying to find our asses, which we have all laughed off.

Eventually the waitress returns with our orders. Smiles sweetly. "Anything else I can get you? More water, sir?"

Game, set, and match for the waitress.

This time after we stopped howling, Sammy J takes a business card from his wallet. "You do any writing?" he asks her. "Come by and see me ..."

Now, I don't know if she ever followed up; I'd like to think that she did and is now a big-name scriptwriter making big bucks; but what this story illustrates to me is the culture that it the media-biz down in LaLaLand, which is to say, passing weird. Larry McMurtry says that going to Hollywood is like going to a town of very powerful two-year-olds, and it's true. They aren't like thee and me down there ...

About Me

I'm a full-time writer, not the rock singer. Mostly science fiction and fantasy. Some mystery/technothriller stuff; some animated TV, couple movie scripts in turnaround or waiting to get there. I've been a student of silat with Maha Guru Stevan Plinck for twenty years. I play guitar a little, and am learning to play the 'ukulele. It's all good.